Translated by Zhao Zhenjiang
The thirteenth returns ...... still the first,
Always her own-or the only hour;
Since you are the queen, ah, the the first or the last?
Because you are the King, ah, the only or the last lover?
- Gérald de Nerval, Artemis
A crystal willow, a watery black poplar,
A high fountain that floats in the wind,
A straight tree that dances,
A crooked river
Forward, backward, meandering, always reaching
where it is going:
Stars or springtime,
A calm step without haste,
The river with closed eyelids
All night long will the prophecies flow,
All at once in the waves,
Wave upon wave,
Until it will all be Covered,
The green host never yellows,
Like the sky spreads its splendid and enchanting wings,
In the thick future
And the light of misfortune
Traveling like a songbird
Singing in the hazy branches;
Making the woods demented
With songs and precarious bliss
The woods are demented
Omens fleeing from the palms
Birds pecking at the morning light,
A shape like a sudden singing,
Winds singing in the blaze,
Glances hanging in the air
Looking out over the world and its mountains and oceans
Bodies of light filtered through the onyx,
Lights on the thighs, lights on the belly
Rocks of the sun, bodies of colored clouds,
Colors of day that leap fast,
Time that flickers and takes form,
Thanks to your world of form that is visible,
Thanks to your world of crystal that is translucent,
I walk in the aisles of sound,
I drift in the loud reality,
like a blind man trekking in the light,
wiped out by one reflection and born in another,
O enchanted forest of signposts,
I enter the corridor of the sunny autumn through the arch of light,
I walk along your body as if it were the world,
your belly is a sunny square,
on your breast towers two churches-
where the blood brews parallel wonders,
and my gaze envelops you like ivy
I am the city surrounded by the sea,
divided by light into two halves of the peach-colored
A place of sea salt, rocks
and birds,
You are the color of my desires
Walking naked as my thoughts,
I am walking on water in your eyes,
The tigers are sipping the oars of dreams on the autumn waves
The hummingbirds are drinking in the water.
The hummingbird burns itself in that flame,
I walk along your forehead as along the moon,
just as the clouds flutter in your thoughts,
I walk on your belly as in your dreamland,
your corn skirts flutter and sing,
your crystal skirts, the skirts of water,
your lips, hair, the gaze,
You rain all night long,
All day long with watery fingers you open my chest,
With watery lips you close my eyes,
On my bones it rains, a liquid tree
Taking watery roots to my breast,
I march along your waist
Like along a river,
I traveled along your body
Like along a wood,
I traveled along a keen mind
Like along a winding mountain path that leads to an abyss,
My shadow fell to pieces at the exit of your fair forehead
I picked up a fragment,
and continued to grope and search without a body.
Memory of the endless passage
To the porch of the empty hall,
Where all the summers have molded,
The jewels of longing burned out at the bottom,
Faces that vanished at the first remembrance,
Arms that disintegrated at the first caress,
The disheveled hair that was a spider's web
Weaved over the years,
Weaving the doorway to your fair forehead
The doorway to your fair forehead
Fell to pieces.
On the face that smiled all those years ago,
I looked for an exit on my forehead,
and found none.
I was looking for a moment,
I was looking for a moment,
I was looking for a moment. I was looking for a moment,
a face of lightning and storms racing through the woods at night,
the face of rain in a dark garden.
The water that is tenacious, flowing around me,
seeking and not seeing, I am alone in my ambush,
unaccompanied, day after day,
I sink to the bottom with that moment,
the invisible road over a mirror,
where my broken image recurs,
I step through the years
Treading a moment,
Treading the thoughts of my own shadow,
Treading my own shadow in search of a moment,
I search for a living date,
Like a bird seeks the sun at five o'clock in the afternoon
The enclosure of the volcanic rock tempered the sunlight:
Time makes its bunches of fruit into a home,
When the The gates opened, and out of its rose-colored guts
Came a group of girls,
Scattered in the school's stone yard,
Tall as autumn.
Walking under the dome of the sky in a haze,
when space embraced her and clothed her in
more golden, transparent skins,
dappled tigers, brown reindeer,
all around the night,
girls leaning on the rainy, green balcony of a rendezvous,
countless young faces,
and the girls were all in a hurry to find their way back.
I forget your names:
Melusine, Laura, Isabel, Persephone, Malia,
You have the face of everyone and no one,
You are all and no time
You are like the clouds, you are like the trees,
You are like the trees,
You are like the clouds, you are like the trees,
You are like the clouds, you are like the trees,
You are like the clouds,
You are like the clouds, you are like the trees. You are like a tree,
you are all birds and one star,
you are like the blade of a sword
and the executioner's cup of blood,
like the ivy that advances the soul, entangles it
and separates it from itself,
1) A fairy of medieval lore, with a serpent's lower part, whom her husband discovers and casts out.
② Laura de Noves was the lover of the Italian poet Petrarch. The poet
has a passionate tribute to her in his Songbook.
③ Isabel Foureirae was a Portuguese noblewoman who rejected the love of the poet
Garcilaso de la Vega.
④ Persephone was the daughter of Zeus and the goddess of grain in Greek mythology, who was robbed by the king of the underworld while picking
flowers and forcibly married as his queen.
The handwriting of fire on jade,
The fissure of the rock, the queen of the serpent,
The standing crutch of steam, the source of the boulder,
The arena of the moon, the hillock of the eagle,
The seed of the fennel, the tiny pinprick-
Life is finite but gives Eternal sorrow,
The grazieress of the trench,
The watchwoman of the phantom valley,
The vine that hangs from the dizzying crags,
The poisonous climber,
The resurrected flower, the jasmine's bower,
The lady of the flute and of the lightning,
The grapes of life, the salt in the wounds,
<
The bouquet of roses for the executed,
The snow of August, the moon of the guillotine,
The sheaf of wheat, the pomegranate, the testament of the sun,
The handwriting of the sea written on volcanic rocks,
The chapter of the winds written on deserts,
The face of the flame,
The face of the fire,
The face of the man. The face of the consumed,
The face of the persecuted youth,
The dreamland of weeks and years,
Facing the same courtyard, the same wall,
The face that burns in a single moment,
The face of the flames that come one after another is but a face,
All the name is but a name,
The face of the sea on the rock of the volcano,
Written on the desert of the wind. All faces are but one face,
All centuries are but one moment,
A pair of eyes to be closed for generations
The gate to the coming and the going,
Nothing before me but a single moment
Tonight
Recaptured from a dream of many images,
Bought out of a tenaciously sculpted Dreams,
Hanging high on my wrist, word for word
Fantasies extracted from tonight's emptiness
The time passes outside,
The world knocks on my heart's doorbell with cannibalistic time
Only for a single moment
When the city, the name, the taste, the life
Can be found on my blind festering on my forehead,
when the dreariness of the night
wears my mind and body
when the years
build up the dreadful emptiness,
and my teeth are loose and my eyes are dim,
and the blood slows down its circulation,
when time closes its folding fan,
and when it's a blur behind its image.
The moment of death's siege
Falls into the abyss and floats back up,
Threatened by the night and its ominous yawns
And the unintelligible language of masked, long-lived death
The moment of the fall into the abyss and sinking
Like a clenched fist
Like a fruit ripened from the outside in.
Absorbing itself and spreading itself,
The translucent moment closes itself in,
and ripening from the outside to the inside,
It occupies me in its entirety,
Roots and grows in the field of my heart,
The luxuriant branches and leaves repel me,
My mind is but a bird of its own,
The tree of the mind. The fruit that savors of time,
Its mercury circulates in my veins,
Ah, the years that will be and have been lived,
Turned into a tide,
And headlong time,
The past was not history,
And is now becoming and merging silently into
Another blurred moment:
The evening that faces the rock and saltpeter -
It holds invisible blades,
you write unnamable red letters
above my skin
And those wounds are like garments that clothe me in fire,
I burn without attrition, I I search for water
and there is no water in your eyes, your eyes,
your belly, your hips, your breasts
are made of rock,
your breath is like dust and poisoned time,
your body smells like a dry well,
and the longing eyes flash
like a corridor of bright mirrors.
Like a corridor of mirrors,
It always returns to the beginning,
You blindly take my arm
Toward the center of the circle along those stubborn corridors,
You stand with your head held high
Like a flame coalescing around an axe,
Shining brightly as a ray of light,
Coldly chilling like a prisoner's guillotine,
It's like the guillotine of a prisoner,
It's like the guillotine of a prisoner.
Soft as a whip,
Shapely as the moon's twin sister,
Your sharp words
Dig in my breast,
Make me empty and scatter my memories,
I forget my own name,
My friends howl among the swine,
Or Molding in a mountain stream due to being swallowed by the sun,
I have only a long wound,
A deep hole that no one has ventured into,
A windowless present,
Returning, repeating thoughts
Reflected and fading into my own transparency,
Consciousness pierced through by a single eye - -
This eye watches itself
until it is bathed in light:
Melusine
I see your coarse scales
glowing green in the morning sun,
you curled up in your bedclothes
waking up as a bird cries,
falling into a bottomless abyss, white and bruised,
only screaming, and a thousand years later I found myself
coughing and old and bleary-eyed, cluttering up ancient photographs
:
Nobody, you're not anybody,
a pile of ashes and a whisk broom,
a duster and a dull knife,
a leather rope with a few bones hanging from it,
a bunch of dried grapes, a black pit,
at the bottom of which are the eyes of a girl drowned a thousand years ago,
the eyes of a girl buried at the bottom of a well,
the eyes that have watched us from the very beginning,
the girlish eyes of an aged mother,
the eyes of a young mother who sees a young father in an aged son A young father in a young father,
The motherly gaze of a lonely teenage girl
A young son in an older father
The gaze that gazes at us from the depths of life
Is a snare for death -
Or the exact opposite: to fall into these eyes
is the return to true life?
Falling, returning, dreaming,
some other future eye, another life,
another cloud, dreaming that I am lost another time!
For me, this night is enough, the moment is enough,
though it does not unfold and reveal
where I have been, who I have been and what you call me
and my name:
Ten years ago I was on Christopher Street
for the summer - All summers - will plans be made,
Phyllis was with me,
She had two dimples -
Where the sparrow drank freely of the light?
Carmen used to say to me on Reform Street
"It's always October here． The air is light"?
Or to the other I have lost
Or am I making it up and no one has said it to me?
I have trekked along the Oaxaca night,
like a tree, the dark green of the night,
I have talked to myself like the wind in a frenzy,
and when I reached my room, which has never changed,
the mirrors no longer recognized me?
From the Hotel de Vernet I see the dawn
Dancing with the chestnut trees
"It's late," you say as you walk
And I see the smudges on the wall in speechless silence?
We climbed up to the top together
and saw dusk descending from the reef!
We ate grapes at Biddle?
Buying gardenias? In Perrault?
Names, places,
Streets, alleys. Faces, squares,
Stations, parks, lonely rooms,
Stains on the wall, someone's dressing,
Someone's dressing, someone's singing beside me,
Names, rooms,
Places, streets, alleys,
Names, places, streets, alleys,
Buying gardenias? Places, alleys, streets,
Madrid, 1937,
In the Plaza de Angel. Women mending garments
and sons singing,
then the sirens, the noise of people,
houses collapsing in the smoke,
cracked towers, phlegm-stained faces
and the hurricane-like roar of engines,
I see; two men undressed, naked and in love
in defense of our eternal rights,
in defense of our eternal rights,
in defense of our eternal rights,
in defense of our eternal rights,
in defense of our eternal rights,
in defense of our eternal rights,
of the world,
in the streets. defend our eternal rights,
our share of time and paradise,
to touch our roots, to restore our nature,
to reclaim our inheritance that has been plundered for millennia
by life's brigands,
those two men who only took off their clothes and kissed each other
because crossed nudity
is unharmed And beyond time,
Undisturbed, back to its roots,
No you or I, no name, no yesterday or tomorrow,
Two truths united into one soul and body.
Ah, how beautifully complete ......
The room floats in the middle of the
city that is about to sink,
the room and the street, names like traumas,
this room, with the windows that open to other rooms,
the windows glued to the same faded paper,
and the windows, with the same faded paper,
and the windows, with the same faded paper,
and the windows, with the windows, with the same fading paper.
a man in a shirt perusing the paper there
or a woman ironing;
that bright room visited by peach branches,
another room; rainy and cloudy outside,
three rusty children and a patio;
a room like a ship bobbing in the bay of light,
or a room with names as traumatic as names in the street.
Or like a submarine: silence spreads on blue waves,
Everything we encounter glows with phosphorescence,
Splendid mausoleums, tattered portraits,
Tablecloths with sharpened cups; traps, cells,
Intriguing caves,
Birdcages and numbered chambers,
Everything flies, everything changes. changes,
Every carving is a cloud, every door
opens to the field, the sky, the sea,
Every table is a feast;
Everything closes up like a shell,
Time entangles them in vain,
There's no time nor wall: space, space,
Open your palms , seize this wealth,
cut the fruit, and lie down under the tree
drink the water sorely, and satiate the life!
Everything is sacred, everything is transformed,
Every room is the center of the world,
All is the first night, the first day,
When two kiss, the world comes into being;
The beads of crystalline visceral light,
The room opens up ever so slightly; like a fruit
Or a sudden explosion
Like a silent astral body
And a law stolen by rats;
Banks and prison-fences,
Paper fences, barbed wire,
Electric bells, truncheons, thistles,
Weapons of preaching in monotonous language,
Tender scorpions with clerical hats,
Tigers with bowler hats,
President of the Vegetarian Club and the Red Cross,
Donkey who is an educator,
Crocodile who poses as a savior and father of the people,
Head of State, Shark, and founder of the future,
Stupid pig in a uniform,
Scrubbing his black teeth in holy water
And taking courses in English
and democracy of the Church's favorites,
invisible walls
rotting masks -
separating man from mankind
and from himself,
all of this
falling away from a single, long moment
while we vaguely see our lost unity,
the unsupportedness of man, being man and sharing with man
the bread, the sun, the glory of death
and the astonishing forgetfulness of being alive,
that love is the battle, that if two people kiss
the world is changed, that desires are fulfilled,
that ideals become realities,
that slaves' ridges Wings are born,
And the world becomes real, Wine is wine, water is water,
Bread smells fresh again,
Love is a battle, a gateway open,
No longer a demonic shadow in a trumpet suit,
Chained to eternal shackles by a faceless master,
And if two people
Look at each other and have a heart to heart,
The world is changed. gaze and have a heart, the world is changed,
and love is to throw away the name: "Let me be thy whore"
these were the words of Eloisa1,
yet he yielded to the law and married her,
and later gave him the rot
as a reward to His reward;
Better to sin
Than suicidal lovers, brother and sister cohabiting-
Like two bright mirrors in love with their own kind,
Than to devour poisoned bread,
Than to fornicate on dusty beds,
Than to wild love, mad infatuation
and its poisonous ivy,
rather than the incestuous man who has no gypsophila on his collar
but spit on his collar,
instead of making the waterwheel that squeezes out the juices of life spin
instead of turning eternity into an empty clockwork
and making the minutes into prisons
instead of turning time into copper coins and abstract feces
than to be tied to the square
and die in the rocks;
① Eloisa (1101-1164) is famous for her love affair with the French medieval philosopher Abra
(1079-1142). The latter, who argued that faith should be based on reason,
was regarded as a heretic by the Church and was confined to death, and whose writings include An Introduction to Theology, Yes
and No, and The History of My Passion.
Perfect chastity, the invisible flower
Shaking on lonely branches,
The rare jewel of the saints-it satisfies time
Filtering desire, the wedding of stillness and motion
Which in its crown will sing in solitude,
Each hour a pure of petals,
The world removes its mask,
Its center crystalline and glittering,
Man without a name, the one we call God,
Self-appreciation in nothingness,
Man without a face, adrift in himself,
This is the fullness of the image and the name,
The sun of the sun;
I continue to ramble, rooms, articulated alleys,
groping my way through the corridors of time,
up and down the stairs, hands on the walls, unmoving in place
back to where I started again, searching for your face,
under the sun that has no age,
walking along its own streets,
you're right there at my beside me, like a tree,
like a river flowing by,
like a river confiding in me,
you are like a seedling growing in my hand,
like a squirrel hopping in my hand,
like a thousand birds flying,
your laughter is like a wave overflowing in my body,
your head is like a tiny astral body in my hand,
If you smile as you eat mandarin oranges,
The world is dressed in a greener bloom,
If two people
fell in love, intoxicated, and lay down on the grass,
The world is changed: the sky collapses down, the trees rise upwards,
Space is only silence and light,
Only for one-eyed eagles.
Only to the one-eyed eagle,
Tribes of white clouds drift by,
The body breaks through the net
The soul anchors and sails far away,
We lose our names
And drift among the green and the blue,
Nothing happens
Only the perfect time that passes blissfully by,
And nothing Nothing happened, you were silent and blinked your eyes
(Silence: an angel passed through this long moment
as if it were the life of a hundred suns),
nothing happened but blinking your eyes once?
- The feast, the exile,
The donkey's jawbone, the melancholy rattle,
The dead man's eyes when he fell in the gray field
The eyes that refused to be gullible,
Agamemnon1 and his roar,
The incessant call of Cassandra2
Better than the waves,
Socrates③ in fetters (the sun is born,
death is the waking of sleep: "Clydon, give Esculapius
a rooster, and you will have healthy life again").④
Jackals prowling in the ruins of Nineveh5,
Brutu6 saw the shadows before the battle,
Mondzuma7 in his prickly bed where he could not sleep at night,
on his endless travels in the prison wagon that was heading for death,
Robespierre8
counting with both hands resting on his wounded chin:
minute after minute,
Churuca9 in a wooden boat that looked like a red throne,
and the other, the one that was the most important of all, the one that was the most important of all. wooden boat like a red throne,
Lincoln's
already numbered footsteps as he left the house for the theater,
Trotsky's
dying
and boar-like moans, Maduro's
11
and his unheeded gaze:
Why did you kill me?
The invectives of murderers, saints, and poor devils,
the sighs and silences,
the gnawing packs of dogs picking at the graves of
language and anecdote,
the babbling,
hisses and dull sounds we make before we die,
the gasps of life at its birth
and the sounds of bones clashing in the fight of bones,
the foaming mouth of the prophet
his cries and the cries of the executioner
and of the victim ......
The eye is the flame,
the sight is the flame,
the ear is the flame, the voice is the flame,
the lips are the flame, the tongue is unburnt charcoal,
The touch and the touching, the thought and the thinking
and the thinking man are flames,
Everything burns, the universe is a flame,
Nothingness burns,
It is only thinking of the notion of a flame,
In short there is neither executioner nor victim:
Everything turns to ashes.
Everything turns to smoke at last ......
And what of the Friday
afternoon shouts? What of the signal-filled silence?
What about the silence of words without sound?
Nothing was said?
Was the shouting of men nothing?
When time passes and nothing happens?
① Agamemnon was the Greek mythological king of Argos and Mycenae, the commander of the Greek coalition in the Trojan War, who was killed by his wife and her adulterer after the victory.
② Cassandra was a Trojan princess. After the fall of Troy, Agamemnon brought
her to Mycenae, where she was executed for revealing the truth about Agamemnon's murder.
③ Socrates was an ancient Greek philosopher who was sentenced to death (for drinking turtledoves) for the crimes of "disbelief in the official religion" and "corrupting the youth.
④ Criton was a student of Socrates. Esculapius was the god of medicine in Roman mythology
. The rooster is the symbol of the god of medicine.
⑤ Nineveh was the ancient capital of Assyria on the Tigris.
⑥ Brutus was an ancient Roman statesman and assassin of Julius Caesar, who later committed suicide after losing his army to Macedon
.
⑦ Montezuma (II) was the Emperor of the Aztec
Empire when the Spanish colonizers arrived in Mexico. After being captured, he was stoned to death for persuading his people to surrender.
⑧ Robespierre (1758-1794) was a leader of the Jacobin
faction during the French bourgeois revolution, who was executed in a coup d'état in the month of Heat.
⑨ Churuca (1761-1805) was a Spanish navigator. In a battle at sea
he had one of his legs blown off and continued to fight until he was killed in action.
⑩ Trotsky went into exile in Mexico City in 1937 and was assassinated in 1940.
(11) Madero (1873-1913) was inaugurated as President of Mexico in February 1911, and in 1913
was assassinated in a military coup.
- Nothing happens, just the sun
Blinks its eyes, hardly moves, nothing happens,
Irretrievable, time does not retrograde,
The dead are fixed in death,
Untouchable, unable to change their faces,
From their solitude and death
Gazing inexorably at us without being able to see
Death has turned into a statue of their life,
Ever present and ever empty,
Every minute devoid of content,
A fiend controlling the throbbing of your pulse
And the last expression of your face, the mask of hardness
working your mutable face:
We are a monument -
it belongs to someone else, not lived
barely our life,
-when has life ever really belonged to us? ?
When have we ever really been us?
Gazing, we have always been nothing but emptiness and vertigo,
Ghostly faces in mirrors, horror and vomit,
Life has never belonged to us, it has belonged to others,
Life belongs to no one, we are all life-
The bread of other people's suns,
All the bread of others' suns,
All the bread of others' suns,
All the bread of others' suns.
All others are also us-
When I am me, and at the same time another
My actions would be more mine if they belonged to all
In order to be able to be me I must be another,
Get rid of myself, and find myself in the other,
If I did not exist, the other who gives me my full existence
would cease to be the other,
I am not me, there is no me, there is always us,
Life is the other, always beyond,
beyond you and me, always on the horizon,
Life makes us Enchanted and maddened,
Creating and consuming a face for us,
Human hunger, bread for all, ah, death,
Eloisa, Persephone, Malia,
Show your face at last, in order to see
My true face, the face of others,
My face is always the face of us all,
My face is always the face of us all,
My face is always the face of others,
My face is always the face of us all,
My face is always the face of us all. faces,
the faces of the tree and the baker,
the faces of the driver, the cloud, and the seafarer,
the faces of the sun, of the stream, of Pedro and Pablo,
the faces of the collective loner,
wake me up, for I have been born:
Life and death
compromised in you, Lady of the Night,
Tower of Light, Queen of the Dawn,
Maiden of the Moon Palace, Mother of the Waters.
The body of the world, the family of death,
I have fallen without ceasing from my birth,
Falling on myself and not touching the heart,
Hold me in, with your eyes,
Gather the scattered dust, and re-harmonize my ashes,
Bundle up my scattered bones, and blow them over me,
Bury me in the midst of your earth,
Your silence will dissipate the anger,
It will give peace to the mind;
Open your arms,
The seed is the mistress of the years,
The years are imperishable, Growing, upward,
Just born, they will not terminate,
Every day a new birth, every time a birth
is a dawn and I was born at dawn,
We were all born at dawn,
The sun rises at dawn with his face,
Juan was born with his, that is, everyone's face,
Gate of the living, wake me up, the day is dawning,
Let me look at today's face,
Everything is interconnected and changing,
Arches of blood, bridges of pulse,
Take me to the other side of this night,
Where I am you, and we are you,
The place where the names of men are intertwined,
Gate of the living: open up your living,
Wake up your living,
Wake up your living,
Wake up your living,
Wake up the living. p>Please awaken and learn to be a living being, please work the face,
Please fix your face, please have a face,
For the sake of you and me watching each other.
And for the sake of observing life until the end,
The faces of the sea, of the bread, of the rocks, and of the springs,
Dissolve our faces into that which has no name,
Dissolve them into that which has no face, that which has no living being
And indescribable countenance ......
I want to move on, to go far away, but I cannot:
This moment has slipped again and again into other moments,
I have dreamed the dreams of stones that do not dream,
and in the end, like a stone
have heard the song of my own captive blood,
the sea sings with the voice of light,
and the walls of a city give way to each other
All the gates are destroyed,
The sun begins to rob me from my forehead,
Rolls open my closed eyelids,
Strips away the wrappings of my life,
Takes me away from myself,
And I am not a man, not a woman, not a man. Detached from myself
The dreamland of a thousand years of sleepy stone
And his lucid illusions resplendent.
A crystalline weeping willow, a watery black poplar
A tall fountain floats in the wind,
A straight tree dances,
A crooked river
Forward, backward, roundabout． It always reaches
where it is going.
Mexico, 1957
-- Freedom on Parole